


Turn Over

by levsoligt (orphan_account)



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Alternate Reality, Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Alternate Universe - Character Swap, Blow Jobs, Book vs tv, Bottom Aziraphale (Good Omens), Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Memory Loss, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Panic Attacks, Size Difference, Top Crowley (Good Omens)
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-03-21
Updated: 2020-03-23
Packaged: 2021-03-01 03:53:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 4,871
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23228923
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/orphan_account/pseuds/levsoligt
Summary: “Do you remember last night?”“Of course I do,” Aziraphale muttered. He flashed a small smile, “I wouldn’t forget. I remember each time like it’s the first.”“The first?”“1901,” Aziraphale breathed. He pressed close, hands moving to curl around the curve of his waist.Crowley jerked back.“A hundred and eighteen years?” He asked shrilly.Surely, surely he would have remembered that.Something was awfully, terribly wrong, he realised, right as Aziraphale opened his mouth again.“Eighty nine, dear.”Awfully, terribly, horribly, and reality bendingly wrong.
Relationships: Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Comments: 15
Kudos: 68





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> 'hand in hand with myself
> 
> And I realize
> 
> how many paths have crossed between us’

_“We can go back to mine. Again. If you want.”_

Crowley did his best to phrase it as an offer more than a question, but the gentle breeze that swayed between them in front of the Ritz carried a subtle longing. Heat surrounded the restored world, and memories sat blithely at the front of his mind, sloshing around like a full bath. Most prominent was the fire behind his eyes, swimming around Aziraphale in tendrils that he couldn’t keep at bay. 

A very large portion of his thoughts had been dedicated to fretting over leaving the angel alone. Like his dispersed presence would lead to another fire, or discorporation. Or worse. 

Aziraphale shifted, not uncomfortably, but nervously. His shoes scraped against the pavement, and another burst of wind rustled his golden hair. “If you’re not sick of my company, my dear.”

“Psh.”

He offered his hand.

Aziraphale took it.

Crowley wasted another miracle to get them there, straight in front of the recently fixed front door. They weaved through the bare halls, hands still clasped together, and soon the grey walls melted into a desolate living room that Aziraphale tutted at, and, while Crowley wasn't looking, waved a couple of pillows into its decor. 

Crowley gestured to the couch, smiling, quite unashamedly, as he sauntered over to a sleek cabinet that sat underneath a gleaming window. It held a variety of alcoholic drinks that only ever saw the light when they were both in particularly festive moods. 

“Wine?”

Aziraphale hummed. “I’m actually feeling rather froofy”.

A snap later and a cocktail appeared in his hand. Little umbrellas floated at the top, swirling over a riveting pink.

There was something awfully cosy about surviving an execution. Terrifying, but comforting. They were both _here_ , safe in a flat that still held Ligur’s smoking remains. 

“Reminds me of the autumn of 1957. Remember? In Valencia,” Aziraphale said dreamily, twirling a finger over the icy surface of his drink. 

There had been a flood, and both he and Azirapahle converged on it in a whirlwind of tense words and vague hostility. They had met up a month later, by accident, and gotten tremendously drunk.

Crowley nodded, mouth hovering over the curve of his own glass, “we went to that new bar. Manzana.”

Aziraphale’s forehead furrowed. He had sunk into the leather folds of an objectively uncomfortable couch, but looked completely at ease. “A strange name, wasn’t it?”

“Nnnn. Can’t believe he actually called it that.”

Aziraphale took another sip, eyebrows raised to his curly hairline. “That was you?”

“Nnn. Yeah. Well, mostly him. But we had a good chat. Fun language, Spanish is”.

The flat circled into an unfamiliar lull of silence. Though neither felt the need to tarnish a perfectly good silence with half-hearted attempts at conversation. Company was always enough. A warmth that they could easily curl into.

This one was contemplative, almost, and after another second, blue eyes found themselves settling on the lithe outline of a demon with a very large glass of white. 

They averted from their spot on long fingers when Crowley looked back.

“Did you ever think,” Aziraphale began, his gaze flickering over every surface, bouncing between each thing that was distinctly not Crowley, “back then I mean, that we’d be here.”

Crowley heard the undertones. The idle suggestion.

That night at Manzana had been full of raucous laughter and awful dancing. He remembered spinning Aziraphale under his arm, scoffing at the claims that the gavotte was much more refined. He remembered a slur, an angry bartender, his hands on wide and deliciously warm hips. 

“I had hoped,” he responded quietly, after a second of belated consideration. 

“Me too.” 

They shared a look.

“I know it might not have seemed like it.”

“Understatement,” said Crowley. He winked, mouth curling into a small smile.

A glare was shot his way, but it held no real heat.

“I’m trying to _say_ something here, you know.”

*

Do the world a favour, and think of a record scratching here. 

He _was_ trying to say something. Probably important. 

Which is why there’s a distinctive need for a step back, because things have a habit of going by too fast. So, imagine a painting. 

Technically, the world is a great, big painting full of utter rubbish. A painting moving like a badly rendered video, maybe. Everyone lives in snapshots, because as soon as anything happens, arcane or generic, _snap_ , it’s in the past. It’s a memory. Bona fide and gone. You can’t brush your fingers over a memory. You can’t hear the words again, or see a particular way someone might have been smiling.

It’s just there, in little titbits.

Which is how the painting of the night after the Ritz goes. 

See here, a bit into the future, when everything- on the same night, mind you- was buzzing with the excitement of London’s bustle, and a frigid cold had crept in through the concrete. When a demon and an angel almost seemed close to edging away an unspoken, invisible line. 

After hours of drinking, and subsequent sobering up, that is. 

They sat on the same couch, legs tangled among each other, a maze of empty glasses scattered between them. 

**  
There’s a pause on the next stroke. A piece missing. A painting gone wrong. Unfinished.

**

They sat. Just looking. It goes far to be able to just look at someone. Aziraphale tipped forward, and his nose gently brushed against the jagged point of Crowley's chin. His breath was warm, a ghostly bit of breeze over the sharp incline of Crowley’s cheek.

It smelt of fresh lemon. 

“Would you suppose,” he murmured, voice low, “that _they_ get the same amount of joy from the Sound of Music?” 

His fingers were fiddling with the black fabric of Crowley’s jacket. 

_Are they as happy as us?_ _Do they feel this kind of love?_

Crowley sucked in a sharp exhale. He liked doing that. Pulling back a breath before it could escape.

Every moment had warped, _ineffably,_ to lead them to this point. There was no dancing anymore. The pin had dropped, he was so close he could smell the cologne that usually dragged by him in small clouds as Aziraphale passed by. 

The distant bullethole of an old warning still sat heavily in his chest.

_Too fast._

Aziraphale’s lips touched his. Just slightly, soft and gentle. 

Crowley followed the kiss, chasing after six thousand years of unspoken longing. He dragged a thumb over Aziraphale’s cheek, following the soft lines of his face as their tongues pushed against each other. His stomach felt twisted. It was swirling with the kind of excitement that had, in the past, only appeared in tiny increments when their gestures of affection had to be smaller. Subtle. Almost non-existent. 

“Nah.”

And then it’s gone.

Snap.

Take a picture, look closely, _don’t forget._

* * *

A very nice record player was sitting on a table he had never bought, next to a couch that looked like it was from the eighties- he had never bought that, either. Or miracled it into existence. 

It was the sort of thing you remembered.

Crowley had woken with a hangover, and no memory of the prior night. His ass was sore, back adorned with scratches, and his thighs were littered in bruises. His dick pleasantly throbbed. 

A record continued to spin underneath a long, sharp needle.

He glared at it, but it didn’t, to his immense annoyance, do anything. The air shifted smugly. 

Crowley had been standing, for maybe the last twenty minutes, in the middle of his flat. His completely different flat. It had carpet, white walls, and the sound of an old lady arguing with someone on the phone downstairs. 

The white walls wrapped invitingly to the ceiling, which at least, didn’t have lights. 

He was looking for the phone. Everything had been moved, and his circumnavigating skills were suffering at the hands of the new layout. Not that they were any good to start with. 

When he did finally find it, it was sitting alone on a desk that peeked through a connecting room.

An office. He peered in, feet still planted irritably in the middle of his new lounge room. It was an office, but it lacked the defining feature of any room that could dare call itself an office without one. His throne. His beloved throne. The one he spent countless of hours thinking, or sulking, on. Instead, a  _ normal _ chair was tucked neatly under an elegant desk that twisted black vines up its legs. 

“Fuck.” 

The smell was the same. Lingering bits of evil and smokiness, along with the pleasant tinge of  _ Aziraphale.  _

It could have been a prank, but the last time the angel ever pulled something that was barely akin to whatever the hell was happening now, had been over two hundred years ago. A simple ‘boo’ as Crowley rounded the corner. 

The answering machine, which was  _ gleaming _ , wasn’t blinking. A yellow sticky note detailed with neat handwriting was stuck to it. 

Crowley snatched it up irritably. 

‘ _ Good morning. I hope you slept well, my dear. I left early to go check on the bookshop. There’s tea on the counter. Sincerely, Aziraphale. PS- hoping you found last night as enjoyable as I did.’ _

Crowley raised an eyebrow, and flipped it back over. He did that a couple of times, re-reading and re-flipping until the words blurred together.

A small love heart sat pleasantly next to the full stop. It was drowning in flashes of love, and remnants of lust. 

The note fluttered to the ground. 

His dick pulsed, aroused at the thought of spending a night with his angel, and on any other day, one where he could remember the night before, one where he didn’t have a terrible headache, he would have been pleased. Over the moon, even. 

He looked back into the lounge room, where the record player had cheerfully changed to Foreigner.

‘ _ It feels like the first time! It feels like the very first time. I have waited a lifetime-‘ _

Crowley stuck his tongue out, hissing with fangs that were steadily sprouting alongside his irritation. 

The record player kept spinning merrily.

He sank into his normal desk chair. It wasn’t as comfortable, or nearly as charming. The leather stuck uncomfortably to his bare ass. 

“I had sex with Aziraphale,” he said blankly. “And my mind isn’t letting me remember. Fantastic.” He gestured dramatically to the walls, “and I’ve either drunkenly changed the entire layout of my flat, or Aziraphale has. Lovely. Great day.”

To make matters worse, there was a newspaper, of all things, sitting on the desk.

He poked at it miserably. 

“Still exist, huh?”

It didn’t respond, but the record player began to play Huey Lewis as Crowley tilted his head and gave the inky words a contemplative squint.

_ ‘August _ .’

The blocky print of a four digit number swam in his vision. 

* * *

Aziraphale felt relatively pleased. It was a good morning. Most mornings, usually the ones that followed his nights with Crowley, were good. He was basking in the pleasant afterglow of sex, surrounded by books, and the comforting hum of his gramophone. 

The door banging open didn’t shatter his calm, nor had the screech of tires, followed by screaming, and a car door slamming shut. 

Footsteps trudged up behind him, frustration and confusion tainting the normal scent that always pleasantly invaded his bookshop. 

“Why is it the nineties?” Crowley demanded, eyes focused, and flashing in crazed yellow, on the figure crouched behind a large stack of books. 

Perhaps if he was a bit saner in that moment, he would have taken in how wrong the reality around him was shaping out. Like the colour of the walls, _the smell,_ the smoking of incense that would have put him on edge in any other moment because _fire_ , and the hair that was bobbing in ringlets of dark brown.

“Because time, fortunately, moves forward, my dear,” Aziraphale, sounding slightly disembodied from his spot behind the books, murmured.

“ _It’s wrong._ Adam must have mucked-“

The door jingled.

Crowley whirled around.

“Out! We’re closed. Go on, piss off.”

A middle aged man with a beard shot them both a frown, but swivelled on his feet without a word. 

Aziraphale stood up, looking nonplussed, and Crowley felt like he might have passed out.

“Perhaps you should lay off the _green.”_

Crowley didn’t respond. 

His brain- metaphorically speaking- was moving a bit like a human brain did when it sees something that it definitely should not be seeing. Like a kid witnessing fornication. 

Aziraphale had never bothered with significant changes to his corporation. The amount of energy it took to completely recreate a body without the proper moulding skills of Heaven wasn’t worth it. 

Or entirely possible without something looking off. You could change little things, sure, but dramatic morphing was _hard._

Crowley, despite his very convincing argument on why he shouldn’t have been seeing what he was seeing, was still staring at a completely different person. Clothes were different. Golden hair was brown and poofier. It still sat like a halo around his face, framing smooth, but significantly darker, skin. He was shorter, and carried wide eyes that gazed at him with the sort of bastardlyness that Aziraphale usually kept hidden. 

“Um,” said Crowley smartly.

“Are you feeling okay, my dear?”

“My car is almost a decade behind,” Crowley muttered, slightly hysterically. “It’s got no _roof.”_

Aziraphale craned his neck around to peer out the window, where the Bentley, in all its black glory, sat parked. It’s wheels were haphazardly turned onto half the pavement.

“It looks the same to me.”

Crowley blinked.

“Are you- Is this some kind of joke? _Why do you look like that?_ ”

Dark hands smoothed down non-existent creases in a cream cardigan that Crowley had never seen before.

He sought out the rack that usually held Aziraphale’s waistcoat when he wasn’t wearing it. The only thing close to it was a chair with a black jacket- looking suspiciously like something he would wear- hung over it. 

“Look like what?”

Crowley waved a hand, glaring down at a corporation that didn’t at all match the one he was used to. Not that there was anything wrong with change. But he would have appreciated a warning. A ‘yeah it’s still me in here, thanks’.

“You’re- it’s hard to just change your whole body!”

The notion that Aziraphale might have been in contact with heaven to get it was making his nerves fray.

Aziraphale raised an eyebrow. “I haven’t changed anything.”

“”You’re short!” He peered down at the angel, and lifted a hand over the strands of brown hair. It levelled with his chest. “ _Really short_.”

“Well. There’s no need to rub it in, really. I’ve always been this height.”

“No!”

“Are you experimenting again, my dear? Those, what was it? ‘Mushrooms’? You _know_ what happened last time you tried to collect those. That mother cow chased you through the field.”

Crowley didn’t have time to process whatever it was Aziraphale was implying, but if he did, he might have said something along the lines of ‘I would have remembered that’, or ‘what fields?’.

Instead he just stared.

He was good at staring. Sunglasses made it particularly easy to get away with. 

A hand slipped into his grasp from where it was still hovering above his chest. Aziraphale tugged it down, mouth in a flat line of worry. 

A flutter of warmth flooded his body, and despite the turmoil that was writhing like worms, he felt himself relax.

Aziraphale was mingling his aura with his.

An incredibly intimate gesture that humans often found themselves doing subconsciously. It was a bit different with celestial entities. In hell, the majority of any aura mixing was kept aloof. Perhaps a quick method of expressing anger in a way that you’d _feel_ it. Nothing else, unless you wanted a place in one of the pits. Even Aziraphale, whose aura always pulsed with comfort, kept his tight to his body.

Now it was brushing along his with a tingle he could have mistook for fingers tickling lightly across his skin.

“Why are you-“ his voice cracked, and Aziraphale’s grip on his hand tightened.

“Why wouldn’t I, love?”

_Love._

It felt like a bit of a fever dream. He had waited for centuries to tell Aziraphale how he felt, and now it was happening. It was happening like it had always been there.

“Do you remember last night?” He managed. His fingernails were leaving marks against Aziraphale’s soft skin.

“Of course I do,” Aziraphale muttered. He flashed a small smile, “I wouldn’t forget. I remember each time like it’s the first.”

If demons could pass out, Crowley had a feeling he would have been on the floor.

“The first?”

“1901,” Aziraphale breathed. He pressed close, his small hands moving to curl around the curve of his waist.

Crowley jerked back.

“A hundred and eighteen years?” He asked shrilly.

Surely, surely he would have remembered that.

Something was awfully, terrible wrong, he realised, right as Aziraphale opened his mouth again.

“Eighty nine, dear.”

Awfully, terribly, horribly, and reality bendingly _wrong._


	2. Welp

Crowley very rarely found himself requesting a break from the world. He  _ liked  _ earth. Not everything, though he could admit, unlike a lot of his fellow demons, that a large majority of it was quite enjoyable. But now, he was in a bookshop that hovered un-seemingly on some new details. So if the world could, if it pleased, give him a break, he’d take it. Not just in the form of say, getting rid of F.R.I.E.N.D.S so he’d never have to hear the infernal theme again, but in general. Because the reality before him was darkened by the shade of his sunglasses. There was a noticeable gap in his observational skills. It was all that forgivable for him, in his sleep deprived stupor, to completely miss that the angel in front of him was a little different.

It didn’t help that Aziraphale had sunk into the folds of his couch, book raised to cover most of his face. 

“Morning.”

“Hullo,” replied Aziraphale distractedly.

Crowley grinned, dug his hands in his pockets, and pressed a chaste kiss to the curly halo of hair.

Lack of memory aside, a good night was a good night. Aziraphale, who wasn’t in his usual get up, and who Crowley assumed was also in a throw of sexualised bliss, froze. 

Crowley squinted.

“What?”

“Er. Nothing,” said Aziraphale quickly. He sunk further behind his book.

It was Jeffery Archer. A thick one that didn’t budge under the onslaught of tightening pale fingers around its edges.

Crowley blinked.

_ Pale. _

_ “ _ That’s… unlikely.” 

He shoved up his sunglasses, eyebrows raised. 

" _T_ _ hat’s very un-fucking-likely?” _

The book finally lowered. A face, round and almost glowing, peered at him irritably. “Really, my dear? There’s no need for that kind of language.”

“How the bloody hell did you do that?”

Jeffery Archer flopped, very delicately, onto the tartan couch, “do what?”

Crowley gestured to the angel’s body. “ _ That.” _

His pale fingers stretched up below a waistcoat to meet a pale neck, which craned up at him in fussy confusion. His nose was pointy, mouth a bit thinner, and his face was, well, completely different.

He pressed a finger into a plump cheek. “Didn’t think it was possible.”

Aziraphale pursed his lips, “think what was possible?”

“You know. Changing how you look.”

Aziraphale still managed to look respectably offended while his cheek was being pinched gently between two long fingers. He picked up his book again, licked a finger, and continued to read. “It’s not all that hard to change small details. I made my hair a little longer, but I didn’t think it was all that noticeable.” He chuckled, “next thing you know, you’ll be telling me you’ve never had red hair.”

Crowley scratched his head. “I don’t have red hair.”

He was met with another delighted laugh.

“ _ I don’t.” _

Aziraphale’s smile dropped. It sunk off his face like wax slid down a candle, and Crowley wondered what he’d done with his tone to incite it. Aziraphale leaned forward, book forgotten again, and peered up at Crowley with wide eyes. “Do you really not know?” He curled delicately manicured fingers over his mouth. “Can you not see colours? Are snakes colourblind?”

“What? Obviously I can see colours,” Crowley snapped. 

He turned, ushering himself over to a large mirror that hadn’t been there before, and breifly considered praying to the Lord to ask what the  _ fuck  _ was happening. 

His hair was red. Fiery red. Auburn. A neat bundle of short strands that caught in the afternoon sun as it flooded in from the windows. Crowley stared. He lifted a finger, and pushed his jaw to the side. It was thinner. Pointier. Less square. His cheekbones were just as high, but the face it framed was dramatically different from the corporation he had grown quite attached to.

Aziraphale appeared behind him, concern painting his soft features. He no longer hovered at his chest. His head was level with his. 

“Is this a joke?”

A warm hand landed gently on his shoulder and squeezed, “I’m afraid it’s really quite red, my dear.”

Crowley turned. “No, I mean  _ this.  _ Me.  _ You.  _ Why is the world so,” he waved a hand pathetically, “you know.”

Aziraphale sighed, “well, 2019 is shaping out as one of the better years.”

“Sorry, 2019?” He barked a laugh, “knocked back a drink without me already, angel?”

“I’ve done no such thing.” A glare was thrown his way, but it dispersed with the stretch of a wide grin, “but that does remind me. I’ve got a lovely bottle of rosé in my cupboard. Could I tempt you to a glass?”

“Obviously,” said Crowley, a bit flatly. He peered at the mirror one last time, scowled at himself, and trudged after the angel.

* * *

  


“Oh, this is  _ good.”  _

Crowley nodded, swished his own glass around, and continued to gaze at Aziraphale. The angel hadn’t noticed his silence, and didn’t seem at odds with the long stares Crowley was levelling over his body.

His new corporation was  _ cute _ . His lips were soft, face pale and enraptured with the drink before him. He was just as bright and elegant, a glowing presence that sucked up Crowley’s breath without effort. And as long as it was Aziraphale in there, he had no qualms about whatever human form he took.

“It really is quite relieving,” Aziraphale murmured after a second. He bit his lip, and a flash of heat pooled in Crowley’s groin. “Just being here with you.”

Crowley was glad, at least, that eighty years of fucking amongst silk sheets and against dusty walls was still just as appealing. 

He swallowed the last bit of his drink, and pulled out a pouch of tobacco.

“Want one?”

“ _ Crowley!  _ Don’t be a fiend. I quit years ago.”

“What?” Crowley snorted. Aziraphale’s last resolution had been a complaint about the cigarette restrictions in Heaven. “I saw you smoking one yesterday.”

Aziraphale went bright red, “you absolutely  _ did not. _ ”

“Did too,” Crowley pointed out, and hissed at the hastily rolled cigarette until it glowed red. “Out the window. I know cause I was there.”

Azirphale sniffed, “I think perhaps there’s something wrong with your memory.”

Crowley eyed the pale form before him, stretched out comfortably on an armchair that looked comfortably used. “Hnn. Me too.”

His hair, for one, wasn’t as long, or as silky. He missed the comforting brush of it against his forehead. 

Not that this corporation was  _ bad _ , but he rather liked his old one. He hoped it was alright, wherever it had gone. Some other demon could have nicked it, or it might have been Hell. Some mild form of punishment. Not the worst. But even they weren’t that creative. 

He glanced around the back room, glad it was still alight in the loving affection Aziraphale cared for it with. 

“Do you reckon Adam got some stuff… wrong?”

Aziraphale pursed his lips. They were pink from his drink. “Well, of course. You saw those books yourself.”

Crowley had yet to bring up the different layout of the bookshop. The angel didn’t seem entirely bothered, so he figured it was better to avoid the probable fit that would occur if he were to bring it up.

“Er. Uh huh.”

Aziraphale leaned forward, face twisting worriedly as he stretched out a hand. “Why? Did something happen? Are you alright?”

Crowley’s eye, under the safety of his sunglasses, twitched. “Perfect.” He rubbed at his chin nervously. “I’m perfect, I mean. Er, well I’m not. But you know, in regards to the status of my well-being, I am perfect. Perfectly fine.”

“You don’t seem fine, Crowley. You can talk to me. I-“ he shifted, “I know I said some less than unsavoury things but I really do care-“

Crowley caught his hand, stomach in a fluttering fury of affection that wilted his confusion away. He brushed his lips over soft knuckles. Not a scratch tarnished the smooth skin. “Obviously.”

He quirked his eyebrows, and tugged at Aziraphale’s hand until he tumbled into his lap with a squeak. It was a bit easier when he had been shorter, and Crowley could tease him wilfully and mouth at his neck, but his weight was still warm and comforting. 

“Crowley!”

A toothy grin flashed. “Acting like the picture of innocence, angel?”

Hands grasped at his jacket, curling over the material as Aziraphale pulled in a shuddering breath. His cheeks flushed pink, rosy in the soft wash of the yellow bulb hanging mindlessly from the ceiling. 

“I am the picture of innocence,” he said shakily, despite sounding awfully pleased with himself.

A lanky arm curled around his waist, a flare of warmth that flooded over his skin. Crowley buried half his face into a mob of blond curls with a huff of laughter. 

“Not what you said on Wednesday.”

Aziraphale reared back. 

“Wednesday?” 

“Yep.” A small pop of the ‘p’. Crowley still had the cigarette hanging out his mouth, ash sticking stubbornly to the end as he sucked on it. Pale eyes focused on him; smoke billowing around them, a cage of it trailing delicately through the air until it reached the half opened window. He puckered his lips around the tip, and plucked it between two long fingers. Aziraphale ignored the offer.

He picked at the material of his pants. A few stray strands of fluff that he watched float to the ground, before peeling himself off the very warm lap beneath him. 

Crowley put the cigarette back in his mouth. 

“Alright, angel?”

Aziraphale turned, and if ghosts weren’t so irritating (to celestial entities, at least), Crowley would have thought he’d seen one; gaze wide and a bit brazen. He tugged his waistcoat tighter around himself- one that Crowley had been admiring- and looked at everything that wasn’t the lanky form of the demon in front of him.

“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t do that inside.”

The cigarette vanished, smoke and all. 

Crowley stood, slipped his tongue out to flicker through the air, and smelt the heavy stench of anxiety. 

“Something on your mind?”

Aziraphale huffed, but didn’t knock away the hand that smoothed gently over his shoulder. “There’s certainly something on yours.”

Crowley grinned. “For you, always.”

Aziraphale twisted his fingers together. He wavered on his own feet, his glow less certain- aura held tight to his body, even as Crowley patted his own out like a hand in the dark. 

“Don’t you think we should talk about  _ us,  _ before we…”

Crowley raised an eyebrow, “what’s there to talk about?”

Aziraphale’s face fell. He pressed his lips together, and managed an awfully tight smile. “Right. Well, I’ll just,” he pointed to the spiralled stairs that no longer led up to a cosy flat. Instead, as Crowley followed his finger and peered up, there was even more rows of shelves, all lined with dusty books that wafted the pleasant smell of  _ old  _ and leather.

“Hold on.” Crowley wondered if he just had a certain talent for causing mishaps. He combed his memory for whatever it was he had said that caused such a shift, but came back empty and, if it were possible, even more bewildered. “I’m- what just happened?”

Aziraphale didn’t return the nervous smile that flashed his way. “Nothing, apparently.” 

Crowley frowned. He was trying hard not to just  _ demand,  _ in the nicest way possible, for Aziraphale to tell him what had gone wrong. He could fix it. It wasn’t rocket science. They’d always been able to tell each other if they weren't in the mood. “Are you okay?”

“Tip top,” Aziraphale said weakly. He didn’t climb the stairs, or bother to even move in their direction. A small click of soft fingers and he was gone.

“I-“ Crowley flapped his hands out. The mirror from before caught his eyes, sleek and black in a way that didn’t match the bookshop. It flashed his face at him, a scowling thing with mused hair and different sunglasses. Crowley frowned, and they morphed- like a chameleon changing colours- into the brand he liked.

The mirror flickered, and cracked.

He felt, all at once, very alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Deleted bit:
> 
> “Where’s your phone?”
> 
> Crowley raised an eyebrow, “back at my flat.”
> 
> “I thought you had it with you all the time?”
> 
> “Why the bloody hell would I lug that thing around with me everywhere I go?”
> 
> Aziraphale shot him a strange look.

**Author's Note:**

> [Tumblr](https://levsoligt.tumblr.com/)
> 
> [Twitter](https://twitter.com/smstransformers)
> 
>   
> [spotify](https://open.spotify.com/playlist/0GaOiPaz8vl3NvT1Mmj7SK?si=h33mS96aT7emfod-0cy2UA)  
> That playlist has the songs I think fit the fic, plus the ones that the record plays.
> 
> Just to clear something up! Book Aziraphale is based on my own personal headcanons from art and writing I’ve consumed over time. Cause the book characters can really look however you want. Which is why TV Crowley is confused. And, he’s yet to see his own corporation. 
> 
> Another difference between TV and Book. The Bentley. Lmao. I’m so sorry, Crowley’s. 
> 
> But yes, this is a shameless, very self indulgent book and tv swap. 
> 
> Come chat with my on tumblr or Twitter!! I love fren.


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